Falling
by Pendragoned
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Drabble. Warnings for Major-Character Death.
1. Chapter 1

Reichenfeels. I'm sorry.

I've literally just written this so i'm sorry for mistakes and what not.

Its 3:02 in the afternoon. The road by is quiet. Not many people pass by, and the odd cab glides along the tarmac.  
John's legs dangle precariously off the roofs edge, notebook and pen in hand. No-one has noticed him yet. Though John has become a ghost to most people, just sinking futher and further out of social circles, then proffessional circles til eventually John is just John. Just this. A shell on a rooftop.  
John's handwriting is barely readable where his tremor has returned, and smudges that hold his tears. He stares at the page, putting the pen down. He's finished this section, this last chapter. The wind bristles through his hair. Its coarse, from where it hasn't been washed often enough, but rough too, because it hasn't been cut in months. John's military stance and appearance are long gone, so much so that even Sherlock may not be able to notice his army career, had this been their first meeting.  
_Sherlock._  
_Where's Sherlock, John?_  
For John, this could be classed as their second-first meeting. Not yet. But soon. He's waiting. He's waiting for Sherlock.

Its 3:02 in the afternoon, and Sherlock is gritting his teeth in the back of a cab. One hand is twisted in his now blonde hair, his eyes shut over the brown contacts he has in. Sherlock should not be in this cab. Sherlock should be tracking Moriarty's last associate down. But he is not.  
He is trying to re-claim something of his before he loses it for good.  
Mycroft had alerted him that John had not been seen for hours. Usually, most days at 3 in the afternoon, Mycroft would go to Baker Street and talk to John. Keep him company. Though John was not in the flat, which was peculiar. He was not in the pub, nor in the practise. He had dropped off the CCTV radar. Until someone had alerted Mycroft that John was on the roof to , prompting Sherlock to drop everything.  
Its 3:05 in the afternoon, when Sherlock gets out of the cab at his destination, and looks to the sky.

At 3:04, John dangles his notebook off his index finger until it flutters down to the ground with a thump. The spine of the journal is most likely broken, the cover scuffed, maybe snapped. Then the pen follows, prompting a small ink patch to form on impact.  
John is next. He can see Sherlock lying on the pavement, blood oozing from his head, his face chalky white. Its the same face he sees everytime he closes his eyes. For John, he is so achingly close to his second-first meeting with Sherlock.  
_Just another inch. _  
_And what is an inch?_  
_That is no space at all._  
John's head flickers over the road as he falls in slow motion over the edge. A man, looks so much like Sherlock. But not Sherlock, too. Blonde hair, thinner. Not Sherlock.  
Sherlock's dead, and in less than a second, John will be too.

At 3:05, Sherlock watches John slip helplessly off the edge. And its a role reversal. Although there is no crowd, no audience to watch, there is still a man, falling from .

_A man, who was mentally broken months ago._  
_A man, who is now broken physically too._  
_He is beyond repair on both accounts._

And its Sherlock's turn to look on at the scene unfolding in horror, and whisper,_ 'John.' _


	2. Chapter 2

_Too much data. John's gone, he's really dead. You watched him fall like he watched you fall. It's your fault. Too much-_

'Sherlock, you have to eat.' Sherlock opened his eyes.

'Piss off, Mycroft.'

'Mother is concerned about you, so I will stay here and make sure you don't do anything moronic.'

'Haven't you got a government reputation to uphold? Or a drink, waiting at the Diogenes?' Sherlock pointlessly rolled his eyes and curled further under John's blanket.

'Even though it may be a surprise to you, I care about you more than anyone else, Sherlock. Now stop your bickering and eat.'

'Why.'

'Because you'll end up dead if you continue like this. It has been a week.'

'I've gone longer before. Besides, I have nothing else to live for.'

'Sherlock. Eat something. Otherwise Mother will be up here.'

Sherlock shut his eyes. Maybe then Mycroft would piss off and leave him alone. This was John's fault. Why did he have to mean so much? Sherlock had never been so fragile, so human before. It was an unorthodox feeling, and one Sherlock did not want to possess. He felt empty, though somewhat as content as he could be with John's duvet wrapped around his skeletal figure._ It smelt of tea and John and his favourite softener and John_, which was infinitely more comforting that Mycroft's dulcet tones in his ear and the uncomfortable twisting of that damn umbrella he held. He'd already had begging him to at least take a walk in the fresh air, which if he wanted a walk, Sherlock would go for one, without all the fuss. He was not a child.

'Mycroft.' Sherlock's eyes flickered open. 'Just leave me be. I can feel you staring and it is extremely off-putting.'

'I promised Mother I would not leave you alone for too long, not after last time.'

'I will not be on drugs again. I assure you of that.'

'You may be able to fool any other person, brother, but you do not fool me.' Sherlock batted Mycrofts comment away and glared at him venomously.

'Has Lestrade still got John's notebook?'

'As far as I am aware.'

'Acquire it for me.'

'Sherlock I-'

'Mycroft please.'

'I'll see if Greg can get it from the case file.'

'Now?'

'If you eat some soup.'

Sherlock sighed and picked the bowl up, resting it on his knees, and took a spoonful. The liquid quickly burned his dry throat and dropped to the pit of his stomach. On occasions like these Sherlock didn't tend to realise how hungry he was til he had a sample of something.

Mycroft briefly smiled, just for a second, before worry crept back onto his face at his brothers state. He had never seen Sherlock like this, and Sherlock had been spiteful and neglectful at the best of times. The bowl was placed on the desk above Sherlocks head as he further cocooned under the blanket.

'I'll be back later, Sherlock. Please don't do anything stupid. John wouldn't have wanted that.'

'And you would know how?'

'I was here for the 3 years you weren't.'

Sherlock opens his eyes when he hears footsteps. He knows who they belong to and his heart sinks that they do not belong to John. His John. Instead, they belong to Lestrade.

Sherlock glances at the DI and then back at the floor. He's sick of deducing Lestrade. Its boring and stationary, now, on a daily basis.

'Sherlock, get up.'

'Why?'

'You bloody well know why. You've been non-functioning for nearly 8 days.'

'You're only here because you're having trouble with a case, stop pretending you're concerned.'

'I bloody am concerned! I've known you for 5 years and you've never been like this.'

'Like what, I am perfectly fine. Did Mycroft get John's notebook from you?'

'I've got it here.' Lestrade gestured to the plastic wallet under his arm, which Sherlock lunged for. 'No, Sherlock. I have a case for you. Something to get you out and about.'

'I don't want a case, Lestrade. Just give me the notebook.'

'Sherlock, you need to go-' Sherlock looks and shakes his head. Lestrade sighs and pulls it out from the folder.

'Here.'

'Thank you.' No more words are exchanged. Sherlock runs his fingers over the notebook, looking at it intently, while Lestrade looks at the scene in front of him before resigning himself from the room. Sherlock holds the notebook gently in his hands. The black cover was scratched and the spine was bent a little, but still intact. To Sherlock's surprise, the first cover peels off at the corner under his touch, revealing a second bright blue cover, which turned out to be a police box, not unlike those to be seen in the 50's.

_Okay, now I'm struggling to write this. Its been a week._ _I still put two plates on the table. 2 cups of tea. The same Chinese order. Its quieter, without you, Sherlock. The flat is too quiet. Ironic, isn't it. Even misses your experiments and gunshots. She misses you, most-_

Sherlock flicks to the back. John must have written in this at least twice a week, maybe more than that, because the last page is his last note. The writing is smudged and blotchy, and almost a scribble.

-

_Sherlock, I can't do this anymore. I've tried. Mary was perfect. She was smart, pretty, patient, kind. I loved her._

_But she wasn't you. I can't live like this anymore. A Magic trick, you said. Just a magic trick. I waited. I waited for you. I told myself you'd come back to Baker Street. 'Tomorrow.' I said. Day after day, which turned into week after week. I told myself I could cope._

_Every breeze as I sit up here carries a whisper. The whisper is your name, whistling through the air. I wonder, if you'd sat in all of the taxi's that line the streets. Which ones we sat in together. How much I wish together actually meant together._ _Every face on the street reminds me of yours. Not the smiles though. Stick to ice, remember?_

_No-ones noticed me, yet. I'm already a ghost, Sherlock, can't you see. I'm invisible to everyone. The ground looks welcoming. I wonder if it looked the same to you._ _I still remember our last conversation. Did you feel guilty? Or scared? I wasn't scared then. I was angry, that I'd failed to keep you safe. I'm not scared now, either. I've faced death before. This time its different, only slightly. You're smiling. Sat on the bench, next to where you fell. Your head wound is just a scratch, but I can see it from here._

_But this is time._

_3:04. Just like you._

_One more minute._ _I love you, Sherlock._

_This is our second first meeting._

_This is goodbye, Sherlock._

_This is goodbye, for now._

A tear slides down Sherlock's face. Its genuine. Of the rare few moments Sherlock has ever genuinely cried since he left his mother and father's abuse, John has been the cause.

'He's upstairs.' 's voice makes Sherlock narrow his eyes. Lestrade and Mycroft are the only people permitted to actually come in, other than molly, occasionally, and knows now that none of them need permission.

Its 6 seconds before the footsteps walk through the door and Sherlock almost boils over with rage.

'Get out, Anderson.'

'Listen-'

'No, Get out. Oh, you've brought your girlfriend too, how wonderful.' Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up to make a cup of tea—Just for himself. Anderson isn't staying long enough to get a solitary sip.

'I know how you feel.'

'No, You don't.'

'You think you're the only one to have lost someone? Because you're not gods gift-'

'Hey.' Sally grabs his shoulder and shakes her head. Sherlock feels like there's some secret he's not in on, because everyone seems to treat him like a child now. Though from past experiences, it's hard to keep secrets from him.

'Sherlock, I know we haven't seen eye to eye since-' Sherlock scoffs, but Sally rolls her eyes and continues undeterred. 'But you have to understand people want to help you. You can just whole up in here.'

Her nose crinkles up at the mess in the flat that has amounted, since Sherlock won't let clean. Sherlock doesn't reply and Sally walks over to him.

'Listen. I'm sorry for calling you a freak. You're not a freak, I think I've always been a little jealous. But Sherlock I really want to help.'

'You can't help. Nothing is wrong.'

'But-'

'Sally, he can't help himself, lets just go.'

'We've not been here 5 minutes, Lestrade said-'

'I said we're going.' Sally looked at the floor. 'Sherlock, people can only help if you actually realise there's a problem.'

Anderson looked at her with disapproval before dragging her out into the hall and down the stairs.

Sherlock shut his eyes. Despite his ongoing hatred of them both, he remembered Sally before she joined the force, before she met Anderson. When they were a team. Before that incident. And sherlock found himself feeling quite sorry for her, actually.

_Sherlock, you can get over this. __You can._

_John-I can't._

_I managed while you were gone. Well, for a while._

_You were always the stronger of us. Strong moral principle, things to live for._

_You have to live for both of us, now._

_Not if both means I have to wear those horrific jumpers._

_Okay, not the jumpers._

_I miss you, John._

_I miss you, Sherlock._

_Is this in my head?_

_Of course. But that proves I'm with you, doesn't it. In your head. Together, no matter what._


End file.
